[He promised him that. And for all the stupidness and recklessness and bold-faced roughhousing behind shut doors, the reason Astarion is coltish (or buckish, or whatever you want to call it), is because he knows his limits. Knows everyone else's, too, which is arguably more important in the long run when ambition's like a set of hungry jaws around your ankles, and it doesn't care if you don't want it or don't ask for it or don't even care.
It just wants whatever it is you're holding, if you've got anything at all worthwhile.
And gods' breath does it ever hate what doesn't pay it tribute.
So: safe.]
Lesson one? [Rearranging himself, Astarion only fidgets to find a better angle for the cushion of his bare hips (he's trying— as much as he can— to not jab either of them with the sharp bones under his skin), lacing his fingers over the back of Fenris' neck. Casual the only summary.] Lover. Thrown out by a patriar with a title, it really means I own you. Said by a patriar that's married, it means I want my significant other to really feel their pride sting. Said to someone else completely unaffiliated? It just means whore. Bitch.
Said by a smitten idiot that doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut, like the word friend, it means I want to ruin my life as fast as possible and let everyone have a nice clean shot at it— and that rule goes for even the pack I hang out with, too.
If I told them I don't hate being around them? They'd rip me apart before sunrise.
And the rest almost doesn't matter. Safe, and someday Fenris will have the words to tell Astarion just what it means to hear that word first and foremost slip past his lips. He cannot remember the last time anyone cared for his safety or his well-being, not beyond the fuss of an owner cherishing his property. Safe, Astarion says, and he means it in every way possible: not just from being fired and retaken, but from humiliation, too. Hurt. Grief. Whore, bitch, and they would call him that and worse. They would tear them apart with sharp tongues, his peers and his kin both; the wicked cruelty of a bored aristocrat with nothing else to do. Safe, and suddenly two and a half centuries between them means nothing, for Fenris aches to bury his face in the crook of Astarion's shoulder and shudder himself to pieces.
And he doesn't, of course. They haven't broached that kind of intimacy yet, for all that Astarion is half-naked in his lap. But perhaps some of that longing and adoration makes it to his expression. Or perhaps it comes out in the way he cannot help but touch Astarion over and over: idle motions against the sweep of his arms or the curve of his waist, fingers brushing through his hair, all of it gentle.
But ah . . . lover, friend, and he pays attention, he does, though Astarion's fingers are warm against the back of his neck. But in truth, it sounds bizarre to him. Not unusual, for it wasn't as if Danarius' line was free of sin. Fenris cannot recall his grandfather's proclivities, but he was young then, and far beneath the notice of his master. His father, though, assuredly had a mistress, for there was tension in the house from the moment she first arrived. But he was mere bodyguard then, forgotten and only used if necessary, not privy to the nuances of all the social dances that his masters indulged. If the man had used the term lover as a knife (and Fenris assumes he did, for no other reason than the entire family is sadistic), it flew far above Fenris' head at the time.
And Danarius . . . ah, but he kept it simple. Why tie yourself down to a single woman when you could get your heirs illegitimately? And it kept things so competitive between them. And as for friends, ah . . . no, that was what Fenris was for, wasn't it? A confidant (and a thousand other things) that could never wag his tongue or spill secrets for power.
And the point is this: he understands what Astarion means, oh, yes, and he can recognize the truth in his words. But it makes no sense to him, not really. Not on an innate level.]
Why?
[Forget the term lover for a moment. Forget them (as if his heart doesn't still ache with longing, safe, oh, he will kiss him a thousand times for that word). Fenris asks not just for their sake, but because he wants to understand. Astarion is entrenched within that world, and while dismissing the whims and priorities of nobles is all well and good, it's different when it comes to him.]
What is the point of allies if you all loathe each other so much?
Because they know I'd do it to them too— and it's better than having nothing and no one at all on your side.
[As affection washes over his borders through trailing fingerprints like the island that it is, he starts picking at the fibers of his world from its isolated shores, trying to make himself into a stranger to what shaped him. Made him.
(When even nursemaids have to abide by it, he could drop himself into cynicism just to aggrandize about what really suckled him from birth.
You know, if he was a pretentiously insufferable prick.)]
Orlais calls it the Grand Game, right?
[Purely rhetorical, that question: just a passive segue to pinpoint a way of life that Fenris may or may not know. The man's not thick by any stretch, but recent freedom's still recent freedom, and they both have their blindspots. So start there, drop a reference alluding to a nation practically written by their love of cambions and devils, all of it romanticized for being the embodiment of noble subterfuge, while also being publicly denounced by an equally beloved Chantry.
Always did make for a fascinating read.]
The end goal of everything being to outsmart and outmaneuver your competition— friends and enemies alike. Which is, obviously, the same thing.
Because the more elevated you are, the more the world foists into your lap just by virtue of being you. Id est: the more you have, the more you're admired by the world at large by anyone that wants even a speck of what you have. And the more you're admired, the more fervently you're hated in reverse by people you've never even met for that same reason, too. [And it's not a coincidence that high society's cluttered with cautionary tales about betrayal and longing and love. If it doesn't sink in early, then at least crude repetition might finish filling in the blanks for younger nobles before reality sets in.
Something to keep them away from reckless decisions like these.]
But you? You say these things in private, knowing it can't leave. Not wanting it to, anyway. [Not for status or pride; he'd gritted his teeth and waited out the worst of Astarion's teasing misbehavior with a noble in his lap, and it means Fenris isn't afraid to back off. back out. Fuck off.
Everything— all of it— rings so sincere it hurts for someone that's not used to it.
Makes astarion want to be the same, hungry as he is for love. Touchstarved fingers picking at pale swaths of straightset hair somewhere just behind tan ears, always leaning into every scuff. More. More.
But back to the lesson at hand, before he forgets the whole point of teaching.]
And I already know my father didn't send you to seduce me. [Spoken with the smallest shrug.] Even if he tried to bribe you by offering you freedom, you're too proud: you could maybe try to agree, but I don't think you'd ever bring yourself to do it— besides, my brother's too young to inherit right now anyway, and there's no guarantee that when that finally changes, he won't get hit with the same unruly distemperment as me come puberty. The scandal from making a play like that too early would be blunt as razors.
[It's nothing he hadn't vaguely known before, but there's such a difference between watching a graceful dance and knowing all the steps involved. Fenris listens with a solemn gaze, his hands still roaming as he meets every silent bid for more with as much affection as he can offer. Like that, like that, his palms rough but doting as they sweep over his charge's body, memorizing the arch of his back or the curve of his waist again and again.
And it's so easy to give that affection. Far easier than Fenris thought it might be— and once he starts, he finds he doesn't want to stop, for there's something so soothing about being able to touch like this. Call it relief after weeks of circling one another, maybe, or the last vestiges of last night's jealousy finally exorcised— but perhaps it's neither. Perhaps it's just been a long, long time since he touched anyone like this, and his hands relish relearning such a skill.
But it's strange to receive it. Cool fingers stroke through his hair, caressing the line of his downturned ears, and he tries very hard not to lose focus beneath their touch. It's just that it's so soothing; it's just that he cannot remember the last time anyone touched him like this, affectionate and fond without ulterior motivation. His ears flick beneath the attention, something melting in his gaze even as he attends to Astarion's lesson.]
Then you know I mean it.
[Yes, he does— but there's a relief to confirming it aloud. To knowing that doubt has not crossed Astarion's mind; that he doesn't suspect Fenris might be playing the same tiresome game his peers and family do, for no other reason than boredom or spiteful bribery.
(And he wonders, quietly and briefly: would he refuse if Astarion's father offered him his freedom? Yes, he thinks after a moment— but he does have to think about it, and quietly, that worries him).]
You know this world. You have played this game before.
[He tips his head up, leaning against those clever fingers.]
In this matter, then . . . you must take the lead. In public, we will act as our roles define us . . . but that is easy to say, and less easy to enact. I cannot . . .
[No. What is he trying to say?]
I do not want to go through another party watching you paw at some idiot simply to make me jealous. I do not want to go through another party waiting for one of your friends to strike at me, taunting me over who I've fucked or what kind of bedsport I would make. And I know you cannot . . . it would foolish for you to utterly give up your ways in an instant, and expect no one to notice the difference. But I cannot— will not— go through that again. Not like it has been before.
[For those humiliations would feel different now. It would sting so badly, knowing that Astarion adores him and refuses to show it— for good reason, yes, but what does his heart care for good reason and common sense?]
[Leaning pressure meets willing pressure through the unroughened edgeline of his palm, sighing down at the grown elf underneath him who looks so damn young in his confession with those wide, wet eyes. The flinty gold-green possessed of a gravity all its own, and it's had him for a long, long time, offset by a single fulcrum: if.
If, if, if— always that word comes up between them. If I held this whole estate. If I was older. If I didn't have to pretend. If I could just give you more....(oh, they wouldn't be living the lives they do.) And so if meets no somewhere in the back of Astarion Ancunín's absent mind, a little pinprick trickle slipping through the dry bed of waking possibility, quenching limitations at their brittle root.]
My....friends would notice a change that drastic, you're right. [Hummed out through his nose in thought, slim touch twisting that fringe between his fingers. He's not a creature given to pity, so it's not pity that pangs inside his chest, aching.
I can take the lead, yes. I can stop playing around. But if he plays too gentle....]
Unless you want to come clean, you'll have to be more assertive. Authoritative. [A proxy for his kin's propriety.
[It does feel like déjà vu, doesn't it? A strange dissonance, and it's not the first time he's felt with Astarion. And yet there's no lead to follow, no thread to chase, and so Fenris simply notes it and puts it away.
Better to focus on the here and now. The way it makes him feel to hear Tevene curled around Astarion's tongue: warmth followed by a short, sudden drop as he returns to reality and listens to what his master says. How good of an actor are you?]
I can hide my emotions if I wish.
[Every servant can, or they don't stay employed for long. And yet . . . mmph. It's not that he minds being authoritative. He can play the role of forbidding bodyguard, constantly keeping Astarion from running too wild; that doesn't bother him. But his mind flits to the party. To that circle of seven nobles, their eyes glittering with malice and their mouths twisted up into a jeering smirk; to his own sinking humiliation, and the realization that the pack had found their prey for the night . . .
And what will it do to him to see Astarion enact that role? Perhaps he will not sink his claws in as deeply as he had before, but it will still sting. And he could tolerate one night, or two, but . . . it will be years before Astarion can successfully pretend he's been tamed; decades more before he inherits. And if pressed, Fenris will admit: he could do it. That is the way his life has always been: he is set a task and he accomplishes it, for he has no choice in the matter.
But now he does. Here, now, with this elf in his lap . . . Fenris hums softly, his eyes flicking up as he focuses.]
Is there even a choice?
[It's a real question.]
They would tear us both apart if you told them you were fond of them, you said. Would they be similarly inclined if you were upfront about what we were? Or would that be akin to handing a child a loaded gun?
[For it seems more the latter to Fenris' mind— but Astarion has proven unexpectedly earnest. And for all that Fenris does not trust nobles, he does not have much knowledge of them, not really. Not beyond Danarius and his family. It's a fractured view and he knows it, so best to fill those gaps in his knowledge now.]
[Lanky joints fit around relaxed muscle in a way that leaves their outlines flush through the loose, milky opaque hang of his blouse; he's not sugarcoating any truths this morning.] But me making the absurd decision to try and keep the source of my supposed infatuation is at least, in their eyes, a move that makes sense. Confirming their petty little teases as something real gives them the satisfaction of being proven right, rather than being left out of the loop until all hell breaks loose.
[Plus, there's the chance that it could even endear them on some odd level, like bought stock or a racehorse invested into on a whim: when a hunch is made true, instinct can occasionally evolve into an odd little twitch of protectiveness. Your own secret. Your personal proof of validity on a microcosmic scale.]
I'd be careful about trusting Violet or Petras with holding either drink or your reputation, but— let's be honest— [the next bit said with a dose of implied exclusion, as if Astarion doesn't count:] who listens to children anyway?
[No one, is the answer. Not in higher circles, that is. And it doesn't count if a high lord's trying to fuck you, turning an ear to adolescent gossip while sticking his hand inside your pants— he won't care or remember it later, it's worth less than the chattering of servants. Whores. Anyone with a weathered nose for insights and lessened odds on petty gripes.]
Besides.
[He says, scoffing mostly to himself as he rolls two strands of hair into each other— the start of working on a braid along the edge of Leto's temple.]
[The word bursts past his lips without his say-so, more baffled than incredulous. It's not beyond the realm of imagination that such a group might find the hired help pleasing, in the same way they might grow fond of a stray dog that had taken to following them around. It's just that when he tries to apply that thought to himself it all sort of falls apart. Why me, for all he can imagine is Violet's indignant stare or Petras' sputtered offense.
It's playing with fire either way, Astarion says, and Fenris believes him— but still, surely they should go for the safer option. Fenris' misery be damned; he'll learn to cope with it, for long-term goals are always better than short-term happiness. And yet . . . is it the safer choice? Fenris wonders even as lithe fingers begin to braid his hair (and oh! what a thing, for he's never had anyone play with his hair like this before). That group is like bloodhounds on a scent when it comes to hidden secrets and idiotic gossip— and though Fenris is more inclined to deride than compliment, he has to admit, they're perceptive. How long will it take them to spot even the most minimal sign of misery? A tight mouth, a rigid spine . . . and then they'll test it. They'll prod at it like a doctor with a scalpel, trying eagerly to see just what it is that triggers it . . .
And when they find out, they'll be in the same position as before. Only this time, it won't be a shared thing. It will not be a secret they were let in on early; instead, they'll treat it like blackmail. Like a filthy secret to be held over Astarion's head.
It's a lot to ask to trust them. And maybe there is no right choice, Fenris thinks. But better to take control than to hope that Fenris can pretend enough to fool six clever little things with too much time on their hands.
With a little sigh, he tips his head, pushing gently against Astarion's fingers. They really do feel good. There's something a little intoxicating about the steady tug against his scalp; the doting care that comes from fussing with one's appearance . . . and it reminds him, just a little, of home. Tevinter, loathed and despised and yet home nonetheless, and Fenris misses the styles and food just as much as he despises everything else about the country.]
Let us tell them.
[He finally says it aloud, surfacing from his thoughts, though in truth he was only quiet for a few moments.]
It seems inevitable they will find out either way. And better to trust them with it and rely on their egos to keep the secret than to give them something unwillingly.
[And then, a little curiously:]
Why would they like me? All I have ever done is scold you and backtalk them.
Edited (dont lie dw i picked out an icon) 2023-12-27 19:52 (UTC)
The same reason I did, before you started rolling over. [And with a grin, he curls his fingers— knuckles-to-joints-to-nails underneath uncalloused palms— digging the tips of them in against the hemline of Fenris's coarse shirt around his waistline, scrubbing playfully over the middle of his guard's taut belly as if he were an oversized wolf on his back.] You're handsome. Unusual. Unique. Striking.
Rugged.
[If his grin slants a little in that emphasis, sue him. It's a segue between scuffing at taut muscle and going back to methodically plucking at plaitwork, anyway, ergo rakishness is all part of the distraction: something to keep Fenris entertained while they weigh in on what could well be their downfall.
Lines of moonstone hair wrapped around a future where everything goes wrong, just to smother that possibility in its hypothetical crib.]
Don't doubt they wouldn't try to steal you if they thought there was a chance....but in place of that? Tugging your tail is the next best thing.
[Very familiar, and yet dissonant all the same. Or perhaps it's just that what makes sense with Astarion rather makes less sense with those he knows less. He swats Astarion lightly against one thigh as he scrubs at him. Stop that, and even he isn't sure if he means the praise (genuinely offered, surely, and yet his eyes flick up, uncertainty clear in his gaze) or the motions of his hand. And yet even as Astarion settles back down, his fingers working at that braid (or is it the start of another?), Fenris keeps touching him: palms settling flat on his thighs and stroking slowly up to his hips, over and over.
In truth, it's a more contemplative action than anything. He understands what Astarion is saying, he truly does, and it's not as if he's inexperienced with the concept of bored nobles wanting to rouse some old wolf . . . but it's a strange thing, after three centuries of a certain kind of slavery, to apply such a lens to himself. Danarius' father and grandfather treated him as little more than living furniture; and while Danarius did objectify him, it wasn't like this.
Perhaps it's because he doesn't yet understand the rules. What is and isn't allowed, what will keep him safe or get him in trouble . . . everything is shifting so quickly, and what was once stable is now like quicksand beneath his feet. He can keep up, but it does take some adjustment.]
I did not roll over . . .
[It's a mild protest, murmured more for the sake of saying something as he thinks. And maybe this is how he handles his own fear: by fixating on the details. By fretting over the strangeness of nobles rather than all the terrors that might happen if this goes wrong— if one of those six grows petulant or bored or mean, slighted by some silly faux-pas that ends up destroying him—
But what can they do save trust?]
And your tail-tugging was of a far different caliber than theirs. But I see your point.
[And speaking of tail-tugging (and speaking of distractions, though he's certain they'll return to the topic of his friends soon enough):]
Since I learned you were Tevene. [Truth stitched into the easy loll of his head to one side when he's pushed for misbehavior; nudged at like a stubborn runt barely grown into its own scruff— which is apt, in all fond fairness: there's not an ounce of fear to be seen in those pale eyes at present; Fenris could growl or grouse or snarl at him in earnest, and it wouldn't slow him down. Like all fledgling things let loose, he leads as often as he's able— and when every molehill is as big as a mountain to his unweathered heart, boldness is just breathing.
(And besides, if Astarion knows anything at all like the back of his highborn hands, it's the game of manipulating his peers.)
He's just never had a reason to give a damn about getting caught until now
So: yes, I like you. Yes, I'm trying to get your attention. Yes, I'm spoiling you whether you sit still or not—
Though one slid-in little tug on the braid he's halfway through (down the slopelines of his guard's temple, up around his ear; finally staring to add in other strands along the way), is his way of nudging back, all lopsided for good measure. White flashes of sharp edges in the shadow of stark daylight. One part fondness, two parts settling greeting— it's just the wagging of his restless tail as they both settle in (and settle down).]
[No, it's no bad thing to hear his mother tongue. Strange, especially when Astarion's accent adds a slant to all his words— and yet then again it's all the more pleasing for it, for it reminds him just who is speaking. Fenris' head tips back, his eyes flicking over Astarion's face as his own expression begins to, if not soften, at least relax. Those fingers slowly tending to his hair are more soothing than they have any right to be; with a little sigh he turns his head into them, his palms smoothing up Astarion's thighs once more.]
But your pronunciation needs work . . . and I suspect as your teacher, I am bound to give you more useful lessons than just curses, hm? Or, [he adds with a chuckle,] exasperated statements. You will be the death of me, that's what you said before.
[And what Fenris in turn had hissed to him, overwhelmed by the revelation of his age.]
Try this, now: banavis fedari. It's a parting statement. Let your tongue roll over it, now . . .
[His smirk is a living thing by now, long as it's stuck around over the past few minutes. It crawls— independent of the rest of him— high enough across narrow features to flex the sharp tips of his ears by proxy. (And no matter that he's lived through disarming smiles. No matter that he's used expression like a lit fuse when courting merchant princes or noblest of aristarchic mothers or anything and everything on two legs when the mood for mischief strikes, it's not performative this time. It can't be.
Their glances are too peripheral; Fenris could only see him if he strained himself right into blindness while attempting it— and even then he'd just wind up ruining his braidwork for the sight of a couple blurry knuckles at best.)
So reduce it to what it is: Just one more sign Astarion's enjoying this. The way they're looped together like some kind of odd, hybrid ouroboros.
Heavy pressure on his thigh and a lightness tucked underneath the loose lines of his shirt. His fingers working at something that isn't busywork or— all right, fine, yes, it's trouble, but it's different. It's all different. It feels warmer.
Better.]
Hm.
[Soft hm. Thoughtful hm. Consideration first instead of blind obedience, he's cocking his own head like a hound that knows the trick, but wants to decide whether or not he'll play along, already tying off one braid in favor of starting the next:]
Banaa-vis fed-ari.
[His intonation's right, but the rest is sluggish. Halting. Slow. Though what comes next might as well be its antithesis for rushed-in bluntness:]
Is it true that everyone in Tevinter eats snakes because they worship dragons?
[If you're going to start teaching him for real, this is what you're getting, Fenris.]
[His next chuckle is more an exhale than anything: hot breath ghosting against the sharp line of Astarion's ear as his fingers squeeze his thighs: brat, not for the question itself but the deliberately impudently way it was delivered. And yet Fenris is not offended; to his surprise, he's enjoying this immensely. No one has ever asked him about home before.]
No.
[Well—]
They revere dragons, but they do not worship them like gods. And you will not see snake meat served on any magister's plate, though it isn't the most uncommon thing down in the poorer districts. I have eaten it before. It was . . . fish-like.
[Someone once told him that snakes taste of whatever it is they ate in life, but frankly, he's never gone back to find out.]
But one has little connection to the other. Our dishes tend to be mostly made of meats and breads, though less . . . hearty than they are here. And, [he adds, unaware of the slight smile gracing his lips,] before you ask: rampant orgies that are decadent dens of blood and vice are about as common as they are here, which is to say it happens mostly among the younger nobles who have little time on their hands. [A quick squeeze to one supple curve, a tease that goes unacknowledged as he smoothly continues:] But it is mostly humans there, with other species implicitly discouragee taking positions of power. I have seen elves as magisters, but it is still a rare enough thing.
[A beat, and then, with a little grin:]
We also sometimes will have roasted crickets dipped in chocolate as a snack. You might like those.
[They're actually quite good; that is assuredly not why he suggests it.]
[No dragon gods, no blood orgies, no snakes— except for in the leanest places, just like everywhere else. Boiled down to its bare bones, it should be the most soft-mouthed tug when dealing with the sun elf perched across Fenris' lap: no, we're not that monstrous, no, we're not that wicked, no, we're not that profane— comparatively, anyway.
But instead of taking that gentle correction, Astarion launches even deeper into its grip instead: wondering if there's a Tevene version of Petras out there, for some reason. (Mostly because it was Petras who went on about the snakes, actually, and the lesson stuck.) A Dalyira. A Violet. An Astarion. All of them a little keener— more ruthless. Some mixture of Fenris' sharp wits combined with rumors about mercenary wickedness, despite what he's just been told.
Nothing moderate; everything incensed. Amusement glittering as it sparks and sparks and sparks. Bright as the ear that twitches for Fenris' patient gust of an exhale. If he could wrangle his own imagination, maybe he'd be a little closer to that avidly conceptualized self.
And from there, that scolding grip along his thigh, his ass—
And from there, laughing— ]
You liar!
[Disgust mingled with fascination, inseparable as he shoves Fenris back against the covers just as playfully— both palms flat— braid forgotten.
Gods, he can't remembered the last time anyone's talked with him like this. Joked with him like this.]
[Gods, he can't remember the last time anyone's talked with him like this, joked with him like this— playful as pups and achingly casual, with no thought of rank or power. He laughs as he's pushed down, his hands squeezing Astarion's hips as he smirks up at him.]
I am not. I'll procure some for you, if you wish. And we can see how good you really are at swallowing something down—
[There's another flurry of movement, another playful scrap that starts with Astarion shrieking in disgust and ends with Fenris dragging him in close, tugging at that sleepshirt until he's sprawled atop him once more, their faces only a few inches apart. Settle here, be near me, as Fenris' face softens by degrees with blatant amusement.]
Your food is just as strange to me. Far, far heavier than I was ever used to in Tevinter— and I do not understand your aversions to spice. You are aware it exists, hm?
[Old bastard, he hisses hotly around the corners of his grinning eyeteeth, voice already lost in roughness of their scuffling segue— a flurry of shoves and snapping limbs— paved over and buried just thereafter; his heartbeat's still thrumming, but his eyes are locked on shadowed glints of green and gold, and with them pulling in the same shared inches of air (back and forth, back and forth— one inhale before the next) only to feel it pour against the other's lips, he can't stay that wild, or repulsed, or distracted, as it were.
A few stands of pale braidwork already hanging loose, scratching at his cheek for closeness.
(Somewhere nearby, Talindra sighs to herself as she treads past the sound of muffled laughter through a shuttered door.
Somewhere, not so long after, the other servants don't even question having the rest of the day off).]
You're think it's weird we don't want to spend all day groaning in agony because even our food wants to kill us? [Asked while the upwards angling of his chin slides the bridges of their noses together. A curious sort of crowding.
At odds with the tension in their hips.]
No wonder you're all such prickly bastards. Can't even eat without hurting yourselves.
Spoken like a true Baldurian who cannot handle the least bit of flavor. But you will learn. I will start you on the spices we use for children and go from there.
[Their noses and foreheads bump together over and over in something a little rougher than a nuzzle. It's a soothing motion, assuring for reasons that Fenris cannot quite place; he tips his head forward, chasing after Astarion each time, delighted by the heat of the pale elf's breath against his lips.
It's a different sort of delight to feel Astarion's hips rock sedately against his own. It isn't deliberate so much as the natural result of pressing together, but oh, he can't help but notice it. And yet— mmph, and though he doesn't go stiff with discomfort, still, he doesn't rock back just yet. Forty-five still lingers in the forefront of his mind, appalling and scandalous, not helped by his own teasing jokes about age. And it's not that it's a dealbreaker— clearly it's not, for he sets a heavy hand against the small of Astarion's back in implicit encouragement. But gods, it does linger. And he's going to have to figure out a way to make his peace with it.
His other hand slips between them, catching Astarion's chin. Gently:]
You're forty-five.
[Not a shocked statement, but a soft emphasis now that the revelation has had time to settle in.]
Are you certain you wish to— to do anything with someone so much older?
[And he doesn't just mean sex. Anything, and slot in whatever word you like, romance, companionship, partner . . . there is a difference between them, and it will do no good to ignore it.]
[Astarion agrees, and leaning into that pressure comes as easily as breathing, his body and mind already attuned to what they want over everything else. Bare skin burning pleasantly to feel the rougher scrape of cloth pushed high and hard into the softest places between his legs, caressing at him on command if those branded hands still won't— chin sat heavy in that palm like a monument to profane mergers paved in iron lust.
He knows the path they're on. The way they're settled.
He knows he's smiling as he keeps his own hands squared across that chest, gripping linen at the centerline. His posture shifting. Rocking. Dragging high across the borders of a cock he hasn't taken yet— not really. Not the way he's dreamed of well before last night, making Violet and the others right (though fuck if he'll admit it when they inevitably hear the truth about all this).
If Fenris won't make that last, final leap into pitch-perfect disaster, Astarion gladly will.]
And I want you.
[Pushing past the angle of that grip around his jaw to kiss him fully— more chaste than what the rest of him implies. Tinged with lilac. Leather oil. Heat.]
[But, the word lingering on the tip of his tongue in those breathless moments before Astarion kisses him. But, but, but, and the sentence can end a thousand different ways. But what if you tire of me; but what if I am too old and wearied for you? But your family still owns me; but what if they never let you inherit? But what if I become too distracted; but what if you become bored of me—
Their mouths meet. Warm lips press plushly against his own, and Fenris' eyes flutter shut as his hands redirect once more, settling on Astarion's hips. A wave of soothing relief washes over Fenris' heart, and it does not extinguish all his worries, no, but it does help to hush them. Astarion knows what he's choosing. And perhaps it will end badly; perhaps they will find they are not suited to each other— but this is not the overeager rush of youth hungry for temporary satisfaction. Whatever they become, they both of them are entering into it with open eyes.
Their lips part, Astarion offering that tease. And despite himself, Fenris responds with a little smirk.]
You're forty-five, [he murmurs in echo, and flips them both over, a rapidfire motion that ends with Astarion on his back and Fenris neatly slotted between his legs. His hips roll down, his trapped cock throbbing for the unclothed, supple cheeks that rub temptingly against his trousers.]
My young charge . . . I have much to teach you about the world. Spices, [and he darts down, stealing a swift kiss,] and all.
[It's not a week later that they see Astarion's friends.
Not at a party, to Fenris' mild surprise, but an informal social gathering. A picnic that Dalyria is hosting, or so Fenris is told; it's not really a picnic if you have a bunch of servants help you drag everything out onto your massive front lawn, but no one actually asks him what he thinks about it. Besides: it works out in their favor. Once all the servants head back to the manor, there's no prying ears left to overhear, and that's as it should be. Bad enough they risk Violet or Petras wagging their tongues; no need to worry that some servant might find themselves susceptible to a well-placed bribe months down the line.
'Besides,' Violet says airily in response to Aurelia's complaints, 'we have Astarion's bodyguard to fetch us things if need be. Isn't that right?' She looks at him expectantly, a glint in her eye. It's a test, albeit an easy one, and he knows how he ought to respond . . . but ah, not today. Not anymore.]
No.
[He says it neutrally, not that it matters. Petras laughs anyway, amused by Fenris' utter unwillingness to defer to them. Violet rolls her eyes, but it's too nice a day to kick up a fuss. The conversation drifts, touching on petty gossip and minor arguments about fashion, but sooner or later, it ebbs.
'Weren't you going to tell us something?' Dal asks, her voice soft as she glances over at Astarion.
'You hinted at it enough,' Leon adds, scoffing fondly as he reaches for the wine. '"Wait and see"— well, we've waited, see? What is it you wanted to show us?'
[Astarion answers with a splay of his hands where he sits over a spread blanket that's kept almost entirely to himself, plate of half-eaten figs balanced over one knee (the one kept horizontal to the earth, that is), while his other tilts skywards, ankles crossed.
And the others— wait.
Think.
Stare, trying to discern what it is about him or their surroundings that's changed in either the last few minutes or over the last few weeks, when all he looks— as far as anyone can tell— is the same. The same pale white hair, the same pearl-colored skin, the same gilded jewelry, the same loose shirt and decadent clasps, the same breeches and dark riding leathers— all of it, everything exactly what they've seen before.
'I don't see anything different.' Yousen hums out precatively. The first to break the silence if only because his hawkish eyes are usually the ones eternally relied on by the rest of the pack for even the most well-hidden of secrets.]
Don't you?
[His own sly question posed as Astarion reaches beside his perch for more wine, grasp incidentally crossing over in front of Fenris' own nearby silhouette. Nothing. Nothing at all of note.]
[It takes all of Fenris' self-control not to roll his eyes.
Well— not really. He's not actually annoyed with Astarion for his little game, nor the sly way he's clearly enjoying himself. Nor does he particularly mind this group not instantly leaping to the most sordid conclusion (that part's rather nice, actually). It's just that his stomach is a pit of nerves leaping around, gnawing frantically on themselves as they multiply: what if this goes badly, what if someone overhears, what if it blows up in our faces, what if, what if, what if, and he wants it all to start so he can at least begin to perform damage control.
(Bitter thing that he is, he does not account for anything but the slimmest chance it might all go right).
Astarion reaches over him, his fingers ghosting against the curve of Fenris' hip as he reaches for the bottle— and it's not the reaction but lack thereof that finally makes the penny drop. Yousen first, observant thing that he is; his little oh of surprise alerts the others, and then it's like dominoes falling, one after the other. Surprise more than shock and glee more than than surprise, their eyes gleaming as they realize.
'You wretched little liar— did rut him, then!' Violet exclaims, and Fenris bites back his groan. Six sets of eyes swivel towards him, studying him intently; to his great surprise, it's an effort not to snap at them. He's only been with Astarion a few months now, but it's done more for him than he realized; time was he was effortless at suppressing his emotions, and he cannot decide if this is a good development or not. Something to ponder on later, perhaps.]
It is not rutting—
[Oh, but they're too eager to care. 'Of course it is,' Petras drawls, grinning around his cigarette. 'What else would it be?'
'When did this begin?' Dal asks, her eyes flicking from Astarion and Fenris and back again, a little frown furrowing her brow. 'And what exactly is this, anyway? If it isn't rutting . . .'
And oh, that does make them pay attention. Astarion's known for burning through his hired help, but it's new that he's decided to tell them all with the help present. Rarer still that the help is allowed to sprawl next to him, as casual and informal as if he too belongs there.
And the thing is: Fenris doesn't know. He doesn't know how he wants to define it; he knows even less what a good answer would be, given this pack. He glances over at Astarion, a silent prompt: you tell them.]
[What owlish creatures they've all become, their eyes wide and their appetites wider— save for Dal, of course, who has enough sense in her head to see the larger picture rather than the waves of pure shock still roiling as they bounce back and forth between the others, some of whom seem to have forgotten how to blink.
A trait that only grows in the next few beats when Astarion proudly acquiesces to Fenris' demand, speaking between sips of dark red wine that smells like Chantry spaces:]
Courtship.
[Courtship.
Courtship.
Ohhh if that doesn't send them into an uproar all its own out on that field of a terrace lawn, three— no, four— voices chattering at once: little barking exclamations and a thousand questions rising in a chorus before Petras all but shouts (volume control was never his forte, amongst other things) '—you can't!'
His tone's more childish than usual, it's the kind of you can't that smacks of a toddler's objection, rather than objection itself.
'No one would let you court a damned servant, Astarion, what do you think we are? Stupid??']
Not 'we', no.
[He purrs offhandedly as Petras outright lunges for him— stopped by Leon's stronger, very much older forearm. It spills an entire half-bottle of wine out over a tray of petit fours (the picnic's theme intended to be all those ancient centuries from well before either their parents or their parent's parents ever existed— hence the sort-of-if-you-squint period appropriate clothes— because you can't have a picnic without a theme), and you can't have Petras bickering without ruining something every fucking time, according to Violet's bitter interjection.
Now she'll need a new batch made to replace the ruined ones, and the only servant in earshot is the one that said he won't be playing packmule for anyone.
Which in hindsight makes infinitely more sense, now.]
Edited (autocorrect like every L is a Leto now) 2024-01-09 22:50 (UTC)
[Courtship, and in the ensuing scuffle, there's only one set of clever eyes that notice the way Fenris flushes. It's faint, to be fair. Just a darkening of his ears, his gaze flicking down and away before settling back into the steady, neutral expression he so often adopts around this group. Dalyria studies him for a long few seconds, but doesn't say anything; that isn't her way. Better to ask Astarion afterwards, when he's less inclined to puff and strut for the sake of saving face.
Besides: things are settling down now. Petras is still seething quietly, but there's something more interesting than mere bickering right now. Even Violet feels it: bitter interjections aside, this is still too juicy a piece of gossip to allow it to lie.
'You really can't court a servant,' Aurelia points out. Her voice is a little arrogant, but there's more confusion there than anything. As if Astarion had proposed he might court a dog; it makes no sense. 'Your father won't allow it. No one will allow it, you know what happens when people—'
'— act out too harshly,' Petras interjects, scowling. 'It's one thing to bed your servants; it's another to act as if you're going to romance them. What are you playing at?']
He is not playing at anything.
[Fenris' rumble startles them all; six set of eyes flick towards him, mildly surprised he's speaking at all. He cannot blame them; he's surprised he spoke up, but now he has to continue, doesn't he?]
It is happening, for better or worse.
[They look doubtful, and once again, Fenris cannot blame them. What felt so sure in the safety of Astarion's bedroom feels paltry and pale in the afternoon light, especially under their scrutiny. And he has never been good at this kind of thing, not really; he goes stiff and and cold, shutting down in favor of showing any kind of weakness.
'So you expect us to believe Astarion's become one of those soppy idiots that dream of throwing it all away in favor of something like love?' Petras retorts, and Fenris' mouth thins. 'Please. Idiot though he is, sentimentality was never one of his faults.'
'It's a joke,' Violet declares with a sniff. 'And a poor one.']
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albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
no subject
[He promised him that. And for all the stupidness and recklessness and bold-faced roughhousing behind shut doors, the reason Astarion is coltish (or buckish, or whatever you want to call it), is because he knows his limits. Knows everyone else's, too, which is arguably more important in the long run when ambition's like a set of hungry jaws around your ankles, and it doesn't care if you don't want it or don't ask for it or don't even care.
It just wants whatever it is you're holding, if you've got anything at all worthwhile.
And gods' breath does it ever hate what doesn't pay it tribute.
So: safe.]
Lesson one? [Rearranging himself, Astarion only fidgets to find a better angle for the cushion of his bare hips (he's trying— as much as he can— to not jab either of them with the sharp bones under his skin), lacing his fingers over the back of Fenris' neck. Casual the only summary.] Lover. Thrown out by a patriar with a title, it really means I own you. Said by a patriar that's married, it means I want my significant other to really feel their pride sting. Said to someone else completely unaffiliated? It just means whore. Bitch.
Said by a smitten idiot that doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut, like the word friend, it means I want to ruin my life as fast as possible and let everyone have a nice clean shot at it— and that rule goes for even the pack I hang out with, too.
If I told them I don't hate being around them? They'd rip me apart before sunrise.
[And then, with a thoughtful little scoff:]
Maybe even you.
no subject
And the rest almost doesn't matter. Safe, and someday Fenris will have the words to tell Astarion just what it means to hear that word first and foremost slip past his lips. He cannot remember the last time anyone cared for his safety or his well-being, not beyond the fuss of an owner cherishing his property. Safe, Astarion says, and he means it in every way possible: not just from being fired and retaken, but from humiliation, too. Hurt. Grief. Whore, bitch, and they would call him that and worse. They would tear them apart with sharp tongues, his peers and his kin both; the wicked cruelty of a bored aristocrat with nothing else to do. Safe, and suddenly two and a half centuries between them means nothing, for Fenris aches to bury his face in the crook of Astarion's shoulder and shudder himself to pieces.
And he doesn't, of course. They haven't broached that kind of intimacy yet, for all that Astarion is half-naked in his lap. But perhaps some of that longing and adoration makes it to his expression. Or perhaps it comes out in the way he cannot help but touch Astarion over and over: idle motions against the sweep of his arms or the curve of his waist, fingers brushing through his hair, all of it gentle.
But ah . . . lover, friend, and he pays attention, he does, though Astarion's fingers are warm against the back of his neck. But in truth, it sounds bizarre to him. Not unusual, for it wasn't as if Danarius' line was free of sin. Fenris cannot recall his grandfather's proclivities, but he was young then, and far beneath the notice of his master. His father, though, assuredly had a mistress, for there was tension in the house from the moment she first arrived. But he was mere bodyguard then, forgotten and only used if necessary, not privy to the nuances of all the social dances that his masters indulged. If the man had used the term lover as a knife (and Fenris assumes he did, for no other reason than the entire family is sadistic), it flew far above Fenris' head at the time.
And Danarius . . . ah, but he kept it simple. Why tie yourself down to a single woman when you could get your heirs illegitimately? And it kept things so competitive between them. And as for friends, ah . . . no, that was what Fenris was for, wasn't it? A confidant (and a thousand other things) that could never wag his tongue or spill secrets for power.
And the point is this: he understands what Astarion means, oh, yes, and he can recognize the truth in his words. But it makes no sense to him, not really. Not on an innate level.]
Why?
[Forget the term lover for a moment. Forget them (as if his heart doesn't still ache with longing, safe, oh, he will kiss him a thousand times for that word). Fenris asks not just for their sake, but because he wants to understand. Astarion is entrenched within that world, and while dismissing the whims and priorities of nobles is all well and good, it's different when it comes to him.]
What is the point of allies if you all loathe each other so much?
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[As affection washes over his borders through trailing fingerprints like the island that it is, he starts picking at the fibers of his world from its isolated shores, trying to make himself into a stranger to what shaped him. Made him.
(When even nursemaids have to abide by it, he could drop himself into cynicism just to aggrandize about what really suckled him from birth.
You know, if he was a pretentiously insufferable prick.)]
Orlais calls it the Grand Game, right?
[Purely rhetorical, that question: just a passive segue to pinpoint a way of life that Fenris may or may not know. The man's not thick by any stretch, but recent freedom's still recent freedom, and they both have their blindspots. So start there, drop a reference alluding to a nation practically written by their love of cambions and devils, all of it romanticized for being the embodiment of noble subterfuge, while also being publicly denounced by an equally beloved Chantry.
Always did make for a fascinating read.]
The end goal of everything being to outsmart and outmaneuver your competition— friends and enemies alike. Which is, obviously, the same thing.
Because the more elevated you are, the more the world foists into your lap just by virtue of being you. Id est: the more you have, the more you're admired by the world at large by anyone that wants even a speck of what you have. And the more you're admired, the more fervently you're hated in reverse by people you've never even met for that same reason, too. [And it's not a coincidence that high society's cluttered with cautionary tales about betrayal and longing and love. If it doesn't sink in early, then at least crude repetition might finish filling in the blanks for younger nobles before reality sets in.
Something to keep them away from reckless decisions like these.]
But you? You say these things in private, knowing it can't leave. Not wanting it to, anyway. [Not for status or pride; he'd gritted his teeth and waited out the worst of Astarion's teasing misbehavior with a noble in his lap, and it means Fenris isn't afraid to back off. back out. Fuck off.
Everything— all of it— rings so sincere it hurts for someone that's not used to it.
Makes astarion want to be the same, hungry as he is for love. Touchstarved fingers picking at pale swaths of straightset hair somewhere just behind tan ears, always leaning into every scuff. More. More.
But back to the lesson at hand, before he forgets the whole point of teaching.]
And I already know my father didn't send you to seduce me. [Spoken with the smallest shrug.] Even if he tried to bribe you by offering you freedom, you're too proud: you could maybe try to agree, but I don't think you'd ever bring yourself to do it— besides, my brother's too young to inherit right now anyway, and there's no guarantee that when that finally changes, he won't get hit with the same unruly distemperment as me come puberty. The scandal from making a play like that too early would be blunt as razors.
He's not that stupid.
no subject
And it's so easy to give that affection. Far easier than Fenris thought it might be— and once he starts, he finds he doesn't want to stop, for there's something so soothing about being able to touch like this. Call it relief after weeks of circling one another, maybe, or the last vestiges of last night's jealousy finally exorcised— but perhaps it's neither. Perhaps it's just been a long, long time since he touched anyone like this, and his hands relish relearning such a skill.
But it's strange to receive it. Cool fingers stroke through his hair, caressing the line of his downturned ears, and he tries very hard not to lose focus beneath their touch. It's just that it's so soothing; it's just that he cannot remember the last time anyone touched him like this, affectionate and fond without ulterior motivation. His ears flick beneath the attention, something melting in his gaze even as he attends to Astarion's lesson.]
Then you know I mean it.
[Yes, he does— but there's a relief to confirming it aloud. To knowing that doubt has not crossed Astarion's mind; that he doesn't suspect Fenris might be playing the same tiresome game his peers and family do, for no other reason than boredom or spiteful bribery.
(And he wonders, quietly and briefly: would he refuse if Astarion's father offered him his freedom? Yes, he thinks after a moment— but he does have to think about it, and quietly, that worries him).]
You know this world. You have played this game before.
[He tips his head up, leaning against those clever fingers.]
In this matter, then . . . you must take the lead. In public, we will act as our roles define us . . . but that is easy to say, and less easy to enact. I cannot . . .
[No. What is he trying to say?]
I do not want to go through another party watching you paw at some idiot simply to make me jealous. I do not want to go through another party waiting for one of your friends to strike at me, taunting me over who I've fucked or what kind of bedsport I would make. And I know you cannot . . . it would foolish for you to utterly give up your ways in an instant, and expect no one to notice the difference. But I cannot— will not— go through that again. Not like it has been before.
[For those humiliations would feel different now. It would sting so badly, knowing that Astarion adores him and refuses to show it— for good reason, yes, but what does his heart care for good reason and common sense?]
no subject
[Leaning pressure meets willing pressure through the unroughened edgeline of his palm, sighing down at the grown elf underneath him who looks so damn young in his confession with those wide, wet eyes. The flinty gold-green possessed of a gravity all its own, and it's had him for a long, long time, offset by a single fulcrum: if.
If, if, if— always that word comes up between them. If I held this whole estate. If I was older. If I didn't have to pretend. If I could just give you more....(oh, they wouldn't be living the lives they do.) And so if meets no somewhere in the back of Astarion Ancunín's absent mind, a little pinprick trickle slipping through the dry bed of waking possibility, quenching limitations at their brittle root.]
My....friends would notice a change that drastic, you're right. [Hummed out through his nose in thought, slim touch twisting that fringe between his fingers. He's not a creature given to pity, so it's not pity that pangs inside his chest, aching.
I can take the lead, yes. I can stop playing around. But if he plays too gentle....]
Unless you want to come clean, you'll have to be more assertive. Authoritative. [A proxy for his kin's propriety.
It almost feels like déjà vu when he asks:]
Hm. How good of an actor are you?
no subject
Better to focus on the here and now. The way it makes him feel to hear Tevene curled around Astarion's tongue: warmth followed by a short, sudden drop as he returns to reality and listens to what his master says. How good of an actor are you?]
I can hide my emotions if I wish.
[Every servant can, or they don't stay employed for long. And yet . . . mmph. It's not that he minds being authoritative. He can play the role of forbidding bodyguard, constantly keeping Astarion from running too wild; that doesn't bother him. But his mind flits to the party. To that circle of seven nobles, their eyes glittering with malice and their mouths twisted up into a jeering smirk; to his own sinking humiliation, and the realization that the pack had found their prey for the night . . .
And what will it do to him to see Astarion enact that role? Perhaps he will not sink his claws in as deeply as he had before, but it will still sting. And he could tolerate one night, or two, but . . . it will be years before Astarion can successfully pretend he's been tamed; decades more before he inherits. And if pressed, Fenris will admit: he could do it. That is the way his life has always been: he is set a task and he accomplishes it, for he has no choice in the matter.
But now he does. Here, now, with this elf in his lap . . . Fenris hums softly, his eyes flicking up as he focuses.]
Is there even a choice?
[It's a real question.]
They would tear us both apart if you told them you were fond of them, you said. Would they be similarly inclined if you were upfront about what we were? Or would that be akin to handing a child a loaded gun?
[For it seems more the latter to Fenris' mind— but Astarion has proven unexpectedly earnest. And for all that Fenris does not trust nobles, he does not have much knowledge of them, not really. Not beyond Danarius and his family. It's a fractured view and he knows it, so best to fill those gaps in his knowledge now.]
no subject
[Lanky joints fit around relaxed muscle in a way that leaves their outlines flush through the loose, milky opaque hang of his blouse; he's not sugarcoating any truths this morning.] But me making the absurd decision to try and keep the source of my supposed infatuation is at least, in their eyes, a move that makes sense. Confirming their petty little teases as something real gives them the satisfaction of being proven right, rather than being left out of the loop until all hell breaks loose.
[Plus, there's the chance that it could even endear them on some odd level, like bought stock or a racehorse invested into on a whim: when a hunch is made true, instinct can occasionally evolve into an odd little twitch of protectiveness. Your own secret. Your personal proof of validity on a microcosmic scale.]
I'd be careful about trusting Violet or Petras with holding either drink or your reputation, but— let's be honest— [the next bit said with a dose of implied exclusion, as if Astarion doesn't count:] who listens to children anyway?
[No one, is the answer. Not in higher circles, that is. And it doesn't count if a high lord's trying to fuck you, turning an ear to adolescent gossip while sticking his hand inside your pants— he won't care or remember it later, it's worth less than the chattering of servants. Whores. Anyone with a weathered nose for insights and lessened odds on petty gripes.]
Besides.
[He says, scoffing mostly to himself as he rolls two strands of hair into each other— the start of working on a braid along the edge of Leto's temple.]
I think they like you.
no subject
[The word bursts past his lips without his say-so, more baffled than incredulous. It's not beyond the realm of imagination that such a group might find the hired help pleasing, in the same way they might grow fond of a stray dog that had taken to following them around. It's just that when he tries to apply that thought to himself it all sort of falls apart. Why me, for all he can imagine is Violet's indignant stare or Petras' sputtered offense.
It's playing with fire either way, Astarion says, and Fenris believes him— but still, surely they should go for the safer option. Fenris' misery be damned; he'll learn to cope with it, for long-term goals are always better than short-term happiness. And yet . . . is it the safer choice? Fenris wonders even as lithe fingers begin to braid his hair (and oh! what a thing, for he's never had anyone play with his hair like this before). That group is like bloodhounds on a scent when it comes to hidden secrets and idiotic gossip— and though Fenris is more inclined to deride than compliment, he has to admit, they're perceptive. How long will it take them to spot even the most minimal sign of misery? A tight mouth, a rigid spine . . . and then they'll test it. They'll prod at it like a doctor with a scalpel, trying eagerly to see just what it is that triggers it . . .
And when they find out, they'll be in the same position as before. Only this time, it won't be a shared thing. It will not be a secret they were let in on early; instead, they'll treat it like blackmail. Like a filthy secret to be held over Astarion's head.
It's a lot to ask to trust them. And maybe there is no right choice, Fenris thinks. But better to take control than to hope that Fenris can pretend enough to fool six clever little things with too much time on their hands.
With a little sigh, he tips his head, pushing gently against Astarion's fingers. They really do feel good. There's something a little intoxicating about the steady tug against his scalp; the doting care that comes from fussing with one's appearance . . . and it reminds him, just a little, of home. Tevinter, loathed and despised and yet home nonetheless, and Fenris misses the styles and food just as much as he despises everything else about the country.]
Let us tell them.
[He finally says it aloud, surfacing from his thoughts, though in truth he was only quiet for a few moments.]
It seems inevitable they will find out either way. And better to trust them with it and rely on their egos to keep the secret than to give them something unwillingly.
[And then, a little curiously:]
Why would they like me? All I have ever done is scold you and backtalk them.
no subject
Rugged.
[If his grin slants a little in that emphasis, sue him. It's a segue between scuffing at taut muscle and going back to methodically plucking at plaitwork, anyway, ergo rakishness is all part of the distraction: something to keep Fenris entertained while they weigh in on what could well be their downfall.
Lines of moonstone hair wrapped around a future where everything goes wrong, just to smother that possibility in its hypothetical crib.]
Don't doubt they wouldn't try to steal you if they thought there was a chance....but in place of that? Tugging your tail is the next best thing.
Anything to have your attention.
[Sounds familiar, doesn't it?]
no subject
In truth, it's a more contemplative action than anything. He understands what Astarion is saying, he truly does, and it's not as if he's inexperienced with the concept of bored nobles wanting to rouse some old wolf . . . but it's a strange thing, after three centuries of a certain kind of slavery, to apply such a lens to himself. Danarius' father and grandfather treated him as little more than living furniture; and while Danarius did objectify him, it wasn't like this.
Perhaps it's because he doesn't yet understand the rules. What is and isn't allowed, what will keep him safe or get him in trouble . . . everything is shifting so quickly, and what was once stable is now like quicksand beneath his feet. He can keep up, but it does take some adjustment.]
I did not roll over . . .
[It's a mild protest, murmured more for the sake of saying something as he thinks. And maybe this is how he handles his own fear: by fixating on the details. By fretting over the strangeness of nobles rather than all the terrors that might happen if this goes wrong— if one of those six grows petulant or bored or mean, slighted by some silly faux-pas that ends up destroying him—
But what can they do save trust?]
And your tail-tugging was of a far different caliber than theirs. But I see your point.
[And speaking of tail-tugging (and speaking of distractions, though he's certain they'll return to the topic of his friends soon enough):]
And since when have you begun to curse in Tevene?
no subject
(And besides, if Astarion knows anything at all like the back of his highborn hands, it's the game of manipulating his peers.)
He's just never had a reason to give a damn about getting caught until now
So: yes, I like you. Yes, I'm trying to get your attention. Yes, I'm spoiling you whether you sit still or not—
Though one slid-in little tug on the braid he's halfway through (down the slopelines of his guard's temple, up around his ear; finally staring to add in other strands along the way), is his way of nudging back, all lopsided for good measure. White flashes of sharp edges in the shadow of stark daylight. One part fondness, two parts settling greeting— it's just the wagging of his restless tail as they both settle in (and settle down).]
You don't like it?
no subject
[No, it's no bad thing to hear his mother tongue. Strange, especially when Astarion's accent adds a slant to all his words— and yet then again it's all the more pleasing for it, for it reminds him just who is speaking. Fenris' head tips back, his eyes flicking over Astarion's face as his own expression begins to, if not soften, at least relax. Those fingers slowly tending to his hair are more soothing than they have any right to be; with a little sigh he turns his head into them, his palms smoothing up Astarion's thighs once more.]
But your pronunciation needs work . . . and I suspect as your teacher, I am bound to give you more useful lessons than just curses, hm? Or, [he adds with a chuckle,] exasperated statements. You will be the death of me, that's what you said before.
[And what Fenris in turn had hissed to him, overwhelmed by the revelation of his age.]
Try this, now: banavis fedari. It's a parting statement. Let your tongue roll over it, now . . .
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Their glances are too peripheral; Fenris could only see him if he strained himself right into blindness while attempting it— and even then he'd just wind up ruining his braidwork for the sight of a couple blurry knuckles at best.)
So reduce it to what it is: Just one more sign Astarion's enjoying this. The way they're looped together like some kind of odd, hybrid ouroboros.
Heavy pressure on his thigh and a lightness tucked underneath the loose lines of his shirt. His fingers working at something that isn't busywork or— all right, fine, yes, it's trouble, but it's different. It's all different. It feels warmer.
Better.]
Hm.
[Soft hm. Thoughtful hm. Consideration first instead of blind obedience, he's cocking his own head like a hound that knows the trick, but wants to decide whether or not he'll play along, already tying off one braid in favor of starting the next:]
Banaa-vis fed-ari.
[His intonation's right, but the rest is sluggish. Halting. Slow. Though what comes next might as well be its antithesis for rushed-in bluntness:]
Is it true that everyone in Tevinter eats snakes because they worship dragons?
[If you're going to start teaching him for real, this is what you're getting, Fenris.]
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No.
[Well—]
They revere dragons, but they do not worship them like gods. And you will not see snake meat served on any magister's plate, though it isn't the most uncommon thing down in the poorer districts. I have eaten it before. It was . . . fish-like.
[Someone once told him that snakes taste of whatever it is they ate in life, but frankly, he's never gone back to find out.]
But one has little connection to the other. Our dishes tend to be mostly made of meats and breads, though less . . . hearty than they are here. And, [he adds, unaware of the slight smile gracing his lips,] before you ask: rampant orgies that are decadent dens of blood and vice are about as common as they are here, which is to say it happens mostly among the younger nobles who have little time on their hands. [A quick squeeze to one supple curve, a tease that goes unacknowledged as he smoothly continues:] But it is mostly humans there, with other species implicitly discouragee taking positions of power. I have seen elves as magisters, but it is still a rare enough thing.
[A beat, and then, with a little grin:]
We also sometimes will have roasted crickets dipped in chocolate as a snack. You might like those.
[They're actually quite good; that is assuredly not why he suggests it.]
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But instead of taking that gentle correction, Astarion launches even deeper into its grip instead: wondering if there's a Tevene version of Petras out there, for some reason. (Mostly because it was Petras who went on about the snakes, actually, and the lesson stuck.) A Dalyira. A Violet. An Astarion. All of them a little keener— more ruthless. Some mixture of Fenris' sharp wits combined with rumors about mercenary wickedness, despite what he's just been told.
Nothing moderate; everything incensed. Amusement glittering as it sparks and sparks and sparks. Bright as the ear that twitches for Fenris' patient gust of an exhale. If he could wrangle his own imagination, maybe he'd be a little closer to that avidly conceptualized self.
And from there, that scolding grip along his thigh, his ass—
And from there, laughing— ]
You liar!
[Disgust mingled with fascination, inseparable as he shoves Fenris back against the covers just as playfully— both palms flat— braid forgotten.
Gods, he can't remembered the last time anyone's talked with him like this. Joked with him like this.]
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I am not. I'll procure some for you, if you wish. And we can see how good you really are at swallowing something down—
[There's another flurry of movement, another playful scrap that starts with Astarion shrieking in disgust and ends with Fenris dragging him in close, tugging at that sleepshirt until he's sprawled atop him once more, their faces only a few inches apart. Settle here, be near me, as Fenris' face softens by degrees with blatant amusement.]
Your food is just as strange to me. Far, far heavier than I was ever used to in Tevinter— and I do not understand your aversions to spice. You are aware it exists, hm?
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A few stands of pale braidwork already hanging loose, scratching at his cheek for closeness.
(Somewhere nearby, Talindra sighs to herself as she treads past the sound of muffled laughter through a shuttered door.
Somewhere, not so long after, the other servants don't even question having the rest of the day off).]
You're think it's weird we don't want to spend all day groaning in agony because even our food wants to kill us? [Asked while the upwards angling of his chin slides the bridges of their noses together. A curious sort of crowding.
At odds with the tension in their hips.]
No wonder you're all such prickly bastards. Can't even eat without hurting yourselves.
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[Their noses and foreheads bump together over and over in something a little rougher than a nuzzle. It's a soothing motion, assuring for reasons that Fenris cannot quite place; he tips his head forward, chasing after Astarion each time, delighted by the heat of the pale elf's breath against his lips.
It's a different sort of delight to feel Astarion's hips rock sedately against his own. It isn't deliberate so much as the natural result of pressing together, but oh, he can't help but notice it. And yet— mmph, and though he doesn't go stiff with discomfort, still, he doesn't rock back just yet. Forty-five still lingers in the forefront of his mind, appalling and scandalous, not helped by his own teasing jokes about age. And it's not that it's a dealbreaker— clearly it's not, for he sets a heavy hand against the small of Astarion's back in implicit encouragement. But gods, it does linger. And he's going to have to figure out a way to make his peace with it.
His other hand slips between them, catching Astarion's chin. Gently:]
You're forty-five.
[Not a shocked statement, but a soft emphasis now that the revelation has had time to settle in.]
Are you certain you wish to— to do anything with someone so much older?
[And he doesn't just mean sex. Anything, and slot in whatever word you like, romance, companionship, partner . . . there is a difference between them, and it will do no good to ignore it.]
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[Astarion agrees, and leaning into that pressure comes as easily as breathing, his body and mind already attuned to what they want over everything else. Bare skin burning pleasantly to feel the rougher scrape of cloth pushed high and hard into the softest places between his legs, caressing at him on command if those branded hands still won't— chin sat heavy in that palm like a monument to profane mergers paved in iron lust.
He knows the path they're on. The way they're settled.
He knows he's smiling as he keeps his own hands squared across that chest, gripping linen at the centerline. His posture shifting. Rocking. Dragging high across the borders of a cock he hasn't taken yet— not really. Not the way he's dreamed of well before last night, making Violet and the others right (though fuck if he'll admit it when they inevitably hear the truth about all this).
If Fenris won't make that last, final leap into pitch-perfect disaster, Astarion gladly will.]
And I want you.
[Pushing past the angle of that grip around his jaw to kiss him fully— more chaste than what the rest of him implies. Tinged with lilac. Leather oil. Heat.]
Revolting spices and all.
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Their mouths meet. Warm lips press plushly against his own, and Fenris' eyes flutter shut as his hands redirect once more, settling on Astarion's hips. A wave of soothing relief washes over Fenris' heart, and it does not extinguish all his worries, no, but it does help to hush them. Astarion knows what he's choosing. And perhaps it will end badly; perhaps they will find they are not suited to each other— but this is not the overeager rush of youth hungry for temporary satisfaction. Whatever they become, they both of them are entering into it with open eyes.
Their lips part, Astarion offering that tease. And despite himself, Fenris responds with a little smirk.]
You're forty-five, [he murmurs in echo, and flips them both over, a rapidfire motion that ends with Astarion on his back and Fenris neatly slotted between his legs. His hips roll down, his trapped cock throbbing for the unclothed, supple cheeks that rub temptingly against his trousers.]
My young charge . . . I have much to teach you about the world. Spices, [and he darts down, stealing a swift kiss,] and all.
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Not at a party, to Fenris' mild surprise, but an informal social gathering. A picnic that Dalyria is hosting, or so Fenris is told; it's not really a picnic if you have a bunch of servants help you drag everything out onto your massive front lawn, but no one actually asks him what he thinks about it. Besides: it works out in their favor. Once all the servants head back to the manor, there's no prying ears left to overhear, and that's as it should be. Bad enough they risk Violet or Petras wagging their tongues; no need to worry that some servant might find themselves susceptible to a well-placed bribe months down the line.
'Besides,' Violet says airily in response to Aurelia's complaints, 'we have Astarion's bodyguard to fetch us things if need be. Isn't that right?' She looks at him expectantly, a glint in her eye. It's a test, albeit an easy one, and he knows how he ought to respond . . . but ah, not today. Not anymore.]
No.
[He says it neutrally, not that it matters. Petras laughs anyway, amused by Fenris' utter unwillingness to defer to them. Violet rolls her eyes, but it's too nice a day to kick up a fuss. The conversation drifts, touching on petty gossip and minor arguments about fashion, but sooner or later, it ebbs.
'Weren't you going to tell us something?' Dal asks, her voice soft as she glances over at Astarion.
'You hinted at it enough,' Leon adds, scoffing fondly as he reaches for the wine. '"Wait and see"— well, we've waited, see? What is it you wanted to show us?'
Ah . . .]
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[Astarion answers with a splay of his hands where he sits over a spread blanket that's kept almost entirely to himself, plate of half-eaten figs balanced over one knee (the one kept horizontal to the earth, that is), while his other tilts skywards, ankles crossed.
And the others— wait.
Think.
Stare, trying to discern what it is about him or their surroundings that's changed in either the last few minutes or over the last few weeks, when all he looks— as far as anyone can tell— is the same. The same pale white hair, the same pearl-colored skin, the same gilded jewelry, the same loose shirt and decadent clasps, the same breeches and dark riding leathers— all of it, everything exactly what they've seen before.
'I don't see anything different.' Yousen hums out precatively. The first to break the silence if only because his hawkish eyes are usually the ones eternally relied on by the rest of the pack for even the most well-hidden of secrets.]
Don't you?
[His own sly question posed as Astarion reaches beside his perch for more wine, grasp incidentally crossing over in front of Fenris' own nearby silhouette. Nothing. Nothing at all of note.]
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Well— not really. He's not actually annoyed with Astarion for his little game, nor the sly way he's clearly enjoying himself. Nor does he particularly mind this group not instantly leaping to the most sordid conclusion (that part's rather nice, actually). It's just that his stomach is a pit of nerves leaping around, gnawing frantically on themselves as they multiply: what if this goes badly, what if someone overhears, what if it blows up in our faces, what if, what if, what if, and he wants it all to start so he can at least begin to perform damage control.
(Bitter thing that he is, he does not account for anything but the slimmest chance it might all go right).
Astarion reaches over him, his fingers ghosting against the curve of Fenris' hip as he reaches for the bottle— and it's not the reaction but lack thereof that finally makes the penny drop. Yousen first, observant thing that he is; his little oh of surprise alerts the others, and then it's like dominoes falling, one after the other. Surprise more than shock and glee more than than surprise, their eyes gleaming as they realize.
'You wretched little liar— did rut him, then!' Violet exclaims, and Fenris bites back his groan. Six sets of eyes swivel towards him, studying him intently; to his great surprise, it's an effort not to snap at them. He's only been with Astarion a few months now, but it's done more for him than he realized; time was he was effortless at suppressing his emotions, and he cannot decide if this is a good development or not. Something to ponder on later, perhaps.]
It is not rutting—
[Oh, but they're too eager to care. 'Of course it is,' Petras drawls, grinning around his cigarette. 'What else would it be?'
'When did this begin?' Dal asks, her eyes flicking from Astarion and Fenris and back again, a little frown furrowing her brow. 'And what exactly is this, anyway? If it isn't rutting . . .'
And oh, that does make them pay attention. Astarion's known for burning through his hired help, but it's new that he's decided to tell them all with the help present. Rarer still that the help is allowed to sprawl next to him, as casual and informal as if he too belongs there.
And the thing is: Fenris doesn't know. He doesn't know how he wants to define it; he knows even less what a good answer would be, given this pack. He glances over at Astarion, a silent prompt: you tell them.]
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A trait that only grows in the next few beats when Astarion proudly acquiesces to Fenris' demand, speaking between sips of dark red wine that smells like Chantry spaces:]
Courtship.
[Courtship.
Courtship.
Ohhh if that doesn't send them into an uproar all its own out on that field of a terrace lawn, three— no, four— voices chattering at once: little barking exclamations and a thousand questions rising in a chorus before Petras all but shouts (volume control was never his forte, amongst other things) '—you can't!'
His tone's more childish than usual, it's the kind of you can't that smacks of a toddler's objection, rather than objection itself.
'No one would let you court a damned servant, Astarion, what do you think we are? Stupid??']
Not 'we', no.
[He purrs offhandedly as Petras outright lunges for him— stopped by Leon's stronger, very much older forearm. It spills an entire half-bottle of wine out over a tray of petit fours (the picnic's theme intended to be all those ancient centuries from well before either their parents or their parent's parents ever existed— hence the sort-of-if-you-squint period appropriate clothes— because you can't have a picnic without a theme), and you can't have Petras bickering without ruining something every fucking time, according to Violet's bitter interjection.
Now she'll need a new batch made to replace the ruined ones, and the only servant in earshot is the one that said he won't be playing packmule for anyone.
Which in hindsight makes infinitely more sense, now.]
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Besides: things are settling down now. Petras is still seething quietly, but there's something more interesting than mere bickering right now. Even Violet feels it: bitter interjections aside, this is still too juicy a piece of gossip to allow it to lie.
'You really can't court a servant,' Aurelia points out. Her voice is a little arrogant, but there's more confusion there than anything. As if Astarion had proposed he might court a dog; it makes no sense. 'Your father won't allow it. No one will allow it, you know what happens when people—'
'— act out too harshly,' Petras interjects, scowling. 'It's one thing to bed your servants; it's another to act as if you're going to romance them. What are you playing at?']
He is not playing at anything.
[Fenris' rumble startles them all; six set of eyes flick towards him, mildly surprised he's speaking at all. He cannot blame them; he's surprised he spoke up, but now he has to continue, doesn't he?]
It is happening, for better or worse.
[They look doubtful, and once again, Fenris cannot blame them. What felt so sure in the safety of Astarion's bedroom feels paltry and pale in the afternoon light, especially under their scrutiny. And he has never been good at this kind of thing, not really; he goes stiff and and cold, shutting down in favor of showing any kind of weakness.
'So you expect us to believe Astarion's become one of those soppy idiots that dream of throwing it all away in favor of something like love?' Petras retorts, and Fenris' mouth thins. 'Please. Idiot though he is, sentimentality was never one of his faults.'
'It's a joke,' Violet declares with a sniff. 'And a poor one.']
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